


Makes Scents

by DropTheBeet



Series: Spideypool Bingo [4]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Dry Humping, M/M, Tracking, accidental scent marking, primal urges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 22:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19755121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DropTheBeet/pseuds/DropTheBeet
Summary: Deadpool is new in town and stinks up the place by accidentally scent marking everywhere, making Peter go a little crazy trying to track down the source of the delicious smell.This ISN'T ABO (tho I do love ABO, I just wanted to try something different), this is just Peter being a lil more in touch with his animal urges. I even looked up if spiders can smell for this (they can! Very well!)





	Makes Scents

**Author's Note:**

> I don't regret the title even a little bit. Ty empool and dee from the Isn't It Bromantic server for alpha/betaing this for me ur both precious <3 For the Spideypool Bingo prompt "Scent Marking"

Something smelled absolutely, mouth-watering delicious that he could quite place. Like, when you didn’t realise you were feeling hungry until you smell it and then you feel like you’ve been stranded on an island with nothing but bark to chew on. It smelled sweet, kind of syrupy? But also earthy, like when you charred meat on a barbeque in the middle of summer, maybe? 

Peter’s mouth was flooded at the thought of finding the source of the scent. It had been a slow patrol when he caught a whiff of the gorgeous smell, coming from an alley. He hardly thought as he dropped down to follow the smell. 

It lead him out, past a hotdog stand, up the street, curious eyes following him. He ignored them, and ignored the stand. Whatever this smell was, it made even made  _ hotdogs  _ smell bad enough his nose wrinkled, huffing out a breath to shift the scent  _ out, out, out _ . 

It faded a little at the intersection, but a passing car made the smell rush into him like a slap to the face, his head snapping to follow where the source was. Further up. 

It lead to a few blocks down, up a fire escape. Across two fire escapes. Peter was starting to feel dizzy from the hunger of it, the smell heavy on his tongue, saliva thick in his throat. Teeth near aching with the need to bite into whatever it was, like whenever he passes that bakery on seventh and fantasizes about sinking his teeth into the freshly baked bread. But this smelled so much better, richer, and deeper than anything that bakery could produce. 

He followed it in a strange pattern across the rooftops, moving faster with each step closer, each leap promising more, helpless to the pull of it. His heart was thundering in his chest, muscles twitchy, a deep ache settled in his guts. The scent was starting to grow more complex. Maple syrup? An undertone like the hint you sometimes catch in a dry red wine. Burning charred meat? Fire! Gasoline? 

Peter’s mind clouded with the need to locate it, focussed in on his task, hardly noticing where his feet led him, stomach tightening in anticipation as the scent drew ever closer. He could feel it in the buzz under his skin. The sweat sticking his hair to his face under his mask. How his fingers nearly itched in sensitivity, his gloves feeling too tight. 

The smell was strong now,all over the building he stood on top of. It wove in and out of the whole place, a complex web entangled beneath his feet.. But he would find it. He squinted, prowling across the rooftop, pushing his mask up and near rocking on his feet at the strength of the smell filling his lungs. 

The west side. 

He crawled over the edge, dragging in deep, greedy breaths as his hands shook. Ribs aching at the repeated over-extension. Whole body feeling overstuffed in the suit.

He was near. Close, so close. If he could just-

There. 

A window open on the seventh floor, the sound of someone singing filtering out into the world. 

He pulled himself down as fast as he could, slipping through the window. His head spun, feeling near panic at the sudden immersion in the scent.

Heat or burning. Definitely syrup, maybe gasoline or charred meat or  **_mine_ ** . 

He staggered forward, limbs tingling, room tilting. He used a beaten couch to move forward towards a man in sweats and a loose t shirt, covered in scars with a red mask on, hunched over the stove and belting out pop songs. 

He glanced to the pan, but no. That wasn’t it. His vision spotted black as he zeroed in on the man swaying to the imaginary beat.

Him.

His hands came up without his permission. Before they made contact-

A knife at his throat, white eyes on the red mask narrowed at him. 

The man in front of him squeaked, throwing the knife behind him to lodge into the wall. 

“Spidey! OH EM GEE! I’m such a huge fan!” Peter’s chest heaved, skin one size too tight as the man babbled. “I came to the giant pisspot that is New York just to meet you, well and a small job, been all over the city trying to catch you but look! Here you are! In my kitchen! Holy shit! I’m Deadpool, Wade Winston Wilson if you’re nasty, holy shit you look good- Hey wait, how did you get in? Also,  _ why  _ did you get in?”

Peter staggered closer, the smell filling his lungs, clouding his thoughts, struggling to translate the noises the man made into words. 

“Smelled good,” Peter rasped, hands itching. He tugged at the gloves. 

“Oh, you smelled my pancakes?” Deadpool beamed, “Well, I can always make more for my fave- Hey, you okay?”

Peter swayed on his feet, shaking his head. “No, not-” He waved his hand at the stove, eyes still fixed on the man in front of him.

He stepped into the man’s space, uncaring of how he tensed over. He preened a little at the hard press of muscle against his chest as he rubbed his head against Deadpool’s neck. 

“You smell good,” Peter’s head rumbled in pleasure. The smell filled his lungs completely, settled in his skin, wrapped him up and held him.

He brought a shaking hand up to press against the man’s neck, ignoring the small gasp of response because  _ oh _ , he could taste that smell. It tasted so damn good. Close to campfires, an open flame, sweet syrup oozing over it all, soothing the burn of it.

He swallowed hard, growling as the mask blocked his access. He ripped the offending item up towards the man’s chin to rub his face into the skin he found at his neck.

Wade’s hands clutched at the counter behind him, body twitching as Peter pressed closer, huffing breaths against the newly exposed, textured skin. 

Wade’s voice shook a little, “Spidey?”

Peter shoved a leg between Wade’s legs, mouth opening to lick at the skin he found. 

Wade grunted, a quiet “fuck” slipping past his lips as his hips twitched against Peter’s leg. 

Peter purred in the back of his throat at the feeling of Wade quickly getting hard in his sweats, the scent morphing into something deeper; more dangerous. 

Peter moaned, stepping back and yanking Wade’s legs up around his hips with a yelp from the other man, pushing him further on the counter. 

“Oh god,” Wade whined, “Fuck if this is how good hallucinations can be, I’ve been shortchanged my whole life.”

A strong bitter note threaded through the smell at that, like the disinfected steel at the hospital. 

Peter growled, nipping at the skin and grinding his own cock against Wade. “Don’t.”

His hands wandered under Wade’s shirt, tasting the salt on the skin there. “Smell good. Smell  _ mine _ .”

Wade shuddered under his touch, bearing his throat more. Peter bit down, head dizzy at the taste of blood and burning and sweet syrup. Blood?

He stepped back, head spinning. He gulped down deep breaths, shaking his head in an attempt to clear his muddled thoughts. He shut his eyes, the image flashing behind his eyelids of Wade; still on the counter, legs wide, cock hard, damp patch over the clear bulge, still shivering and flushed and wrecked and all  _ Peter’s _ .

No. 

Blood. 

He licked his lips, only tasting syrup and wildfire. 

“Sorry, did I fuck up?” Wade’s voice was rough, making Peter open his eyes to see how the other man had stood back on his feet, rearranging himself in his pants. 

Peter shook his head as steel started to suffuse the air, “No. Not you. Sorry. I hurt you? ‘M sorry.”

Wade cocked his head, his neck looking the same as before, save a small rust red stain on his collar. “I’m fine, honeybunch. You okay though? Any reason you broke into my apartment to fuck me like one of your bad romance novels, or has my Make a Wish finally come through?”

Peter felt his mouth quirk up, the smell of steel mellowing back into wildfires, syrup, the rich bitterness of chocolate or wine or something delicious. 

Wade made a wounded noise, curling in on himself. “Fuck, that smile. Warn a guy.”

The smell deepened back into that desperate dark tannins in a good wine, a roaring fire. Peter whined, “Smell-”

“Wait, you doing a Hannibal Lecter right now? You can  _ smell me _ ?”

Peter felt himself nod before his brain caught up. Well, hadn’t he said the smell was Wade before? And it made sense. No wonder he felt a gut-aching need to bite down hard, to bend the man over and-

“And I smell good?” Wade laughed loudly, “ _ You  _ like how I smell? Didn’t know spiders COULD smell. Do they have noses? What do I smell like?”

“Wildfire. Syrup. Chocolate or wine or good coffee. Or something bitter but good.”

“Well that’s kind of racist. I think.” Wade frowned, leaning against the counter as he crossed his arms. “It’s some kinda discrimination against my backstory. I smell like fire with skin like this? That’s kinda fucked up, thanks author.”

The syrupy smell sweetened, making Peter smile wide, muscles relaxing as the need to  _ take  _ Wade settled into a familiar need to protect. Keep safe. Nest. 

Okay, the last one was new. 

Peter cleared his throat, head finally slowing down, finally able to notice where he was, that it was only midday, the apartment kinda smelled of burnt food, and he’d  _ broken into this man’s apartment. _

His heart stuttered just as it had finally started to calm, “I’m, uh. Sorry. About… Breaking in and, uh,” Peter vaguely gestured to Wade’s crotch, face heating up. Real smooth, Parker. 

Wade snorted, waving a hand, “Don’t be. That’s going straight to the wank bank,  _ and  _ the Deadpool highlights reel. Wet dream material. Do you still want pancakes?”

Oh, wow, he was not used to flirting anymore. 

Peter resolutely ignored the heat of his face as he blinked at the man beginning to scrape burnt pancake into the trash like he hadn’t just had some random superhero break into his house and try to dry hump his leg. 

“Uh…”

Wade glanced back, his smirk making Peter’s heart beat a touch faster again. “I mean, you  _ did  _ already try to get in my pants, at least you could stay for breakfast.”

“It’s midday,” Peter stated weakly.

“Time’s a construct.” Wade dismissed, putting the pan back on the stove. “So, you in?”

The smell of syrup and wildfires drew Peter in.

“Sure.”


End file.
